The Dream
by skysedge
Summary: A bell ringing in the middle of the night. The door. Someone is at the door. And even now he's sliding out of bed, instantly awake, instantly alert.


**A/N **_I am aware this is horribly short and drabble-esque. If this goes well, I may write longer pieces in the future. I just wanted to write __something__. Also, no AnoHana section? This needs to change._

A bell ringing in the middle of the night. The door. Someone is at the door. And even now he's sliding out of bed, instantly awake, instantly alert.

He manages four swift steps across the room before he stops. Two less than the time before but still four more than he'd like. He's dreaming, still dreaming, although this dream is different from the ones that come to him as he sleeps.

A low voice echoes from the hall. An apology, some idle conversation about missing the train, the rustle of a package of some sort and a goodbye. The door shuts. He stands in the middle of the room, the empty space around him seeming to stretch away into cold oblivion.

Of course, it was just a friend of his parents. Of course, it was something to do with work, something adult, something he's supposed to understand. And he does. Atsumu Matsuyuki is a perfect young adult, all good looks and good grades.

Yukiatsu is still a child. A frightened child who jumps at the sound of the doorbell whenever it is not expected and begins crossing the room, expecting to see _her._ After all this time. Nothing has changed.

_Pathetic, _he thinks with a bitter, cruel smile. _We're all so pathetic._

But some things have changed, regardless. The contents of his closet, for a start. The belief that the world was really a good place. The way his chest wrenches whenever he hears the word _love. _It had been sweet, once, frightened and hopeful. Now it's a wonder he doesn't bleed all over his pristine, privileged uniform daily.

He'd like that, he thinks as he turns and drags his feet listlessly back to his bed. At least then he could cry as if he were in pain, as if this was normal, feeling this way. He knows it's not, really he does. It's just that until someone questions him about it he finds it too easy to pretend.

He's _good_ at pretending, even without all the...trimmings and decoration. Climbing back into bed, he's already pretending, pretending he can't feel the now cold pillow against his cheek nor the twisting of his legs in the sheets. He's wondering what he would be doing, if it _had _been her. What could he do? What could anyone do? Would she be intangible? Would he be able to hold her? _Could _he, even if she were not as intangible as mist and shadow?

_Yes_.

He repeats this in his mind, lips just moving, until the fear of failure has faded into the darkness. As if it matters, really. The only one he has to be ashamed in front of at this moment is himself and he's long got used to looking past his own faults. If he couldn't, he's sure he would have ceased to exist by now.

Because it was his fault. Wasn't it? The only way of still living when he has become such a vile, pathetic worm of creation is to smile and lie and fake and swallow past all that bitterness. He's good at that too. In fact, he's good at anything when he puts his mind to it.

Except forgetting. Except forgiving. Except moving on.

"Pathetic."

And this time he does speak, whispers, one hand pressed against his eyes to stop the tears from spilling and forcing him to acknowledge them. How many tears has he not-quite-cried, lying in this bed and listening to the echoes of the doorbell echoing from the walls? Too many to be manly but he's already given that up.

The sheets prickle against his recently shaved legs, the sensation alien and uncomfortable. He moves them slowly, letting the fabric grate across the sensitive flesh and wondering what exactly it is he thinks he's doing. There's no answer, for that. He can't imagine an answer for this and let it drift on by, like everything else.

He lies in his imaginary ship and imagines the world drifting by, leaving him behind. Not alone, either. Arrogant, yes, but not self-centred enough to imagine he's the only one caught on a memory, a ship snagged on a reef. He'll let the waves gently lull him to sleep, the closest to rest his mind will ever attain.

With the sheets chafing his legs, the equipment for the dream in the closet, and the neat uniform hanging in sight, reminding him of who he _should _be, he falls asleep.

And in his dream there is a sound. A chime.

A bell ringing in the middle of the night. The door. Someone is at the door. And even now he's sliding, sliding back into a secret joy that will only bring more not-quite-tears when he wakes.


End file.
